Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon Scotland Yard 2
by Bartimus Crotchety
Summary: To save his sanity, John Watson became a Yarder. He is now their top man in autopsy, and has become their chief investigative asset. However, there is a brilliant man posing as Sherlock Holmes in London, and he wants his Boswell at any cost!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter Notes:** My Albus Potter readers will be a little confused by my sudden output on an entirely different genre, but my use of UK style English is helping me with both.

Doctor Watson has not left me since I wrote him last. He has lived out three different stories in my poor brain in that span. I was not kidding when I said the man's presence was easily borne, he is ever so polite, but he does make some suggestions on how I spend my time. I will try to write these tales out quickly before they fade, but also keep my Albus series up. That may take some doing, but these wacky Yarders have taken it upon themselves to pay me a visit it is the least I can do.

I did take a look at the Russian version of Sherlock Holmes, and I have to say I have a new favorite Holmes, but Ian Hart is still the baddest Watson in the land. The Russian Watson is the right age and look, and does have certain intelligence, but he is not enough of an equal to Holmes to dethrone Ian Hart in my mind. So once again Ian's Watson is the man I have in mind when I write for this series.

It occurs to me that Lestrade and Watson's relational dynamic is going to be inevitably strained. Lestrade for all his dogged determination, and street smarts has an inferiority complex the size of Belgium. (Shout out to Doctor Who fans)

Watson, however, is determined to bear his share of the load and will not tolerate anyone's compassion towards him, so there is going to be friction!

This story came from the plot bunny, what if Watson, who has become the Yard's resident expert in autopsy, is forced to use his newly rediscovered talents to find someone whom is still alive? Can he match wits with someone who might be as smart as Holmes himself?

I guess we are about to find out.

**P.S.** I just added a picture to my profile that coincides with a quote from this chapter...be sure to check it out!

These are Conan's kids, I just invited them out for tea.

thanks!

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 2**

**Impostor  
**

**Chapter One**

Lestrade argued with himself as he sat in the cosy waiting room Doctor's Kensington practice.

_He does not need to be involved. This might be a step back for him. What if it is him? Watson would be well and truly upset if he was not informed. If it were he, Watson would know before anyone, he knew the man best!_

He stood and walked to a window, he needed a cigarette badly but Watson kept a notice for any smoking to be done outside for the sake of his patients with poor breathing.

Lestrade paced trying to think of what he could say to soften the blow. He knew it was useless, though. He would never be any sort of diplomat; he was a constable, with one tact in his arsenal, which was to come straight at someone. This someone, however, was one of the most complicated minds Lestrade had ever run across. He was not enigmatic by any measure, if you asked him what he was thinking he would answer readily enough. Unlike his partner, who enjoyed being the most knowledgeable person in the room, Watson had no such pretences. He was, however, in the possession of byzantine values and complicated reasoning known only to him, which made him interesting to know, but difficult to have dealings.

Lestrade was not alone in that waiting area. He was amused to notice that for the most part the Doctor's clientele appeared to be exclusively female, and for those visiting the doctor's office, they appeared to be well dressed. His wife, Clea, had mentioned to Lestrade that he needed to be on watch as his friend returned to health, for women wanting to take advantage. Since Watson is, in her opinion, an attractive man, and recently widowed less than a year past, he would be especially vulnerable in these days. Lestrade had found it extremely disconcerting his wife found another man attractive enough to make mention, especially seeing as that man had become a frequent visitor to his humble abode, but he was beginning to see his wife's caution was not misplaced.

The door opened and Watson was leading a young well-dressed woman out. "I still am not sure what seems to be wrong with your wrist, Miss Fortune, take those painkillers I prescribed and you should be fine." The other women in the waiting room had preened and straightened themselves out, they looked up expectantly as Watson's gaze ran over the available patients, his hazel eyes picking up a twinkle as they found Lestrade.

"Chief Inspector Lestrade, please come in."

Lestrade followed him into his office; he glanced back in time to see that his presence had not made him any friends in that waiting room.

"I should like to thank you for giving me an interruption to my day," Watson said in a lower tone as the pulled the door shut and leaned against it wearily. "If I have to diagnose yet another case of hypochondriasis I will need to write my own prescription! I put all of the brides-to-be on the same day so the sick that actually need me don't have to suffer them needlessly, but a fellow can only take so much perfume up his olfactory orifice before he actually misses the scent of a day old corpse." **(1)**

Lestrade smiled. He's _not as oblivious as you think, Clea._

Watson perched on the edge of his desk; he was dressed in starched white shirtsleeves, black slacks as always with matching suspenders, his shoes polished to a high gloss. He was beginning to look healthier, his frame filling out, his skin showing that he had been outside more often. Lestrade could still see the ghost of the haunted man he had found two months previous when they began their work together, it was not entirely gone, which made his present task even more odious.

"I'm here on business, Doctor; there is a matter in which I need your assistance."

Watson's eyes went from friendly to penetrating and cautious, dissecting Lestrade with the particular intensity the man could bring to bear. "The fact you are here and have not sent a runner for me tells me that this is not a body on the ground. I see trepidation in you, but not from information you have to give, but for my reaction to it."

Lestrade grimaced. "How did you come about that conclusion?"

Watson's moustache curled up at the corner in a quick smile. "I have informed you that you have a tell."

Lestrade nodded. "Yes you have, but that guess was suspiciously detailed."

Watson gave him that enigmatic smile that could mean everything or nothing. "There is only one way to release yourself of this burden..."

Lestrade tried to think of a way to soften the blow, but he was not well versed in the arts of conversational subtlety. "We have a man posing as Sherlock Holmes all around London. He fits the description, the manner, and has shown flashes of the same brilliance of your former flatmate, as of yet we cannot catch him to find out his true identity."

Watson seemed stunned for a moment, but then he recovered his equanimity. "You have had imposters before, I have encountered more than my share, why is this man different? You are withholding Lestrade."

Lestrade cursed his "tell" and the man's unfailing ability to read him. "The difference is that this man is actually fighting crime, and leaving his card at the various scenes. He has convinced those who have crossed his path who knew Sherlock; they have become very adamant as to his identity."

Watson's face was neutral; he became as inscrutable as he did that night when he shocked Lestrade with that unexpected outburst. Lestrade felt trepidation, and preparing for any reaction. The one that he received was unexpected.

"Why was I not informed?" Watson's penetrating stare was back, focused on Lestrade, the tone in which he spoke was even, but the anger in his eyes was not.

Lestrade made his own read of the man's behaviour. With a flash of inspiration, he realized that Watson's anger was not at his exclusion from the circle, but that Lestrade felt he needed to be. "I saw no need for your particular proficiency in this matter, Doctor, there was no dead body to examine, or live officer that needed medical intervention."

The anger was still in Watson's eyes as he spoke, annunciating his words, "The fact I know Holmes better than anyone alive was not taken into account? I believe in that field I do have a certain expertise."

Lestrade was not one to take interrogation well, so he went on the offense. "What do you want me to say, Watson? I made a decision to keep you insulated from this affair, you have suffered far more than your portion and as your friend, I decided to spare you this. I make no apologies for that decision."

Watson's intensity did not lessen. "So, give me the letter."

Lestrade felt a chill down his spine. "Who said anything about a letter?"

Watson smiled just enough to set Lestrade more at ease. "You opted to remove me from this affair, something changed your mind, and apparently you feel it inevitable that I will encounter this man. The only logical conclusion is that there is a letter to me in your possession."

Lestrade glowered as he pulled an envelope out of his coat pocket and handed it over. "You are insufferably acute at times, you know that dear Doctor?"

Watson accepted the letter. "You sir, need to remember that I am not to be pitied or coddled if you wish our friendship to stay on good terms."

The two men stared at each other for a moment of silence, before Lestrade broke. "Read the bloody letter...please."

Watson's moustache barely concealed a smirk. "Since you have asked so very nicely, I shall oblige."

Lestrade watched as the other man gently opened the envelope, pulling it out with a pair of forceps he retrieved from his bag. He read the letter several times with the same intensity that Lestrade had seen him use with an autopsy. He examined it carefully, reading the simple four-line message calling him, _My Boswell_, and the ominously portentous, _will see you soon_. Watson held it up to his lamp. "It has a distinct watermark; this is stationary that Holmes preferred and the ink is the type he favoured. The handwriting is remarkably similar. It was handled with gloves and with care; there are no tell-tale smudges or fibres..."

Watson finally looked up. "This man is not Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade let out a breath he was not even aware he had been holding. "How can you be so sure?"

Watson gave him that enigmatic smile. "Not important, I do, however, think we need to visit Mycroft."

Lestrade was taken aback at the sudden change in topic. "Why do you say that?"

Watson carefully folded the letter and replaced it in the envelope. He handed it back to Lestrade. "This man seeks to prove his identity, but he is being very careful with those whom knew Holmes intimately. I doubt he will seek me out until the situation is advantageous because he knows I will end the charade. However, he is seeking allies to back his claim. Mycroft and I are the two most likely to give disputation. I am willing to wager that he has contacted Mycroft indirectly as well, his missive may be more informative."

Lestrade accepted the letter and replaced it in his coat. "The problem with visiting Mycroft, is you do not show at the Diagones Club without being summoned. It is not done. I am a lowly Chief Inspector I do not have the authority to brave those doors."

Watson walked around his desk and pulled out an ornate card from the top drawer of his desk. "A summons like this one?"

Lestrade examined it and let out a gasp. "How did you come by this?"

Watson gave him that lopsided grin. "I have been receiving these twice a month for nearly a year."

Lestrade was appalled. "You have not accepted the invitation?"

Watson shrugged. "Holmes always said that you never accepted Mycroft's invitation on his terms, otherwise he will view you as a pawn instead of a player."

Lestrade traced the engraving on the card. "I am a civil servant, and that man can crush my career on a whim, I ignore him at my peril."

Watson gently accepted the card back from Lestrade. "He cannot do his worst to me; his oath to Holmes would not permit him. I will be the one answering his summons, there at his behest; you will be there in my company, which should insulate you from repercussions."

"I do not believe you weak, John." Lestrade blurted out.

Watson's eyes met his; there was an unfathomable understanding in them. "Neither do you see me as strong. We will continue in this manner only for so long before we reach an impasse."

Lestrade nodded. "I am aware."

Watson nodded, he retrieved his coat and hat, "Then we must proceed, the gentleman in question is not as stable as he appears."

Lestrade watched him prepare to go out. "How did you make that assessment?"

Watson paused pulling on his gloves. "You came for me Lestrade, you believe him dangerous as well, and your instincts are infallible in my opinion."

Lestrade felt a strange surge of elation, this validation was of a sort he never received from Holmes, and he was amused to realize that some part of him deep down had craved it. "I value your faith in me," he managed after a moment.

Watson finished his preparation; he laid a hand on Lestrade's shoulder. "You must learn to also have faith in me as well," he remarked.

He walked past Lestrade to give the bad news to his "patients" as Lestrade mulled over what Watson had said. He realized the man was correct, that raw confession Watson had made to Lestrade in a moment of weakness had coloured his treatment of the man whether he realized it or not.

Trust did not come easy to Lestrade, he was a cynical suspicious person at his heart, and that aided him in his chosen profession, but Watson needed to be trusted, it was essential to work with the man. Could Lestrade find it in his heart to rely on someone else whole-heartedly? Would Watson accept anything less?

With those heady thoughts ringing in his head, he turned to follow the doctor out.

* * *

**Story Notes:** Lestrade is starting to get annoyingly sentient as is friend Watson has already become. That sudden change in conversation, that blunt statement of fact, that has become Lestrade's Modus Operandi as it were. I tell my story from Lestrade's viewpoint but not from first person, so you can see the gears turning but you don't quite inhabit the chap. He and Watson are taking over my brain! Lestrade is less complex, but he has more rough edges, and he is more insistant to be about his business. I have checked into getting medicated by the way, I will hold off until I get these stories written though.

**(1)** This picture shows Watson displaying that pawky humor

**Bart**


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Notes:** And the bunny hops on! I have a special treat for you guys. I've downloaded a high quality version of "The Case of the Silk Stockings" which has my man Ian Hart as Watson. I have managed using VLC to capture him in several scenes, so I am going to add to my main profile a pic that matches Watson in scene from this story. So look for the quote in my special Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard section on my profile and click on the quote for the picture. He is such a wonderful actor that even the stills tell a story! I will put a notation beside the quote and a corresponding number on the profile.

I hope this helps you see the wonderful world that is playing in my head as I write this, noting that this world does belong to Sir Arthur and not I.

**Bart**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 2**

**Impostor**

**Chapter Two**

The hansom ride was awkward for the first block. Back at his practice, the Doctor had seen the disappointed women off with promises that he would make it up to them the coming Tuesday, and wrote a script he sent out with the maid to the apothecary, for a lady he was supposed to visit at her home later. Then they began the trek to The Diagones Club, but the silence was not a companionable one.

"What do you enjoy in your moments off, outside of dinners with your delightful wife Clea and work; I do not normally have dealings with you. You must have hobbies." Watson inquired breaking the hush.

Lestrade eyed him, wondering what the man was after. "You are curious?"

Watson gave Lestrade empty hands. "You suddenly seem to think you are dealing with Holmes, Lestrade, I do not ask a question outside of the motive I state, as you well know."

Lestrade shrugged. "I am not a refined gentleman, such as you, I have no sophistication to claim."

Watson nodded. "Please...elaborate."

"I enjoy the free concerts with Clea, I frequent a tavern near the waterfront, called The Rusty Anchor, the tender has good strong lager and ale, and the buxom waitress occasionally will lift her sweet voice to a sea shanty or two, when she is in an accordion playing mood. I read all the latest innovations in the science of forensics, dry reading that, but necessary since I don't have Holmes to keep me informed any longer. I still have all of his monographs; I don't believe I ever told him," Lestrade remarked staring out at the passing scenery.

Watson smiled. "He would have been flattered that you found them useful."

Lestrade raised a wry eyebrow. "No he wouldn't have been flattered, he would have been insufferable."

Watson laughed. "I never said he would have told he was flattered, I just said he would have been."

Lestrade chuckled. _This man is so easy to talk to, how did he and Holmes have so much in common?_

Watson became silent a moment. "If you would not be opposed I should like to join you some night at this tavern, I assume it is frequented by the Yard?"

Lestrade studied the man for a sign of derision, but his companion's hazel eyes were forthright and serious. "You would assume correctly, but they don't have a wine list."

Watson looked insulted. "Of course they don't, but if they have good Australian ale then I should be at home, but none of that German beverage, you might as well be drinking grit."

It was Lestrade's turn to look surprised. "You know your beers?"

Watson rolled his eyes. He tapped the Hansom roof with his cane to stop at the corner. "I will be right back. Hold the cab."

He stepped off on the corner, shot a quick glance around and had a look at a little newsie's wares. He glanced at the headlines then handed the paper back to him, flipping the little scamp a pence getting a salute in turn. He boarded the cab and they embarked. "The imposter is not advertising yet, I had no time to read the Mirror today I needed to check."

He turned to Lestrade piercing the man with a sudden glare cold enough to create icicles out of dripping water. "To answer your query, I travelled to the four corners on behalf of the crown, I have visited bars in Calcutta where you had to keep a sword in your hand as to not get your throat cut, dives in Sidney that would make your tavern look virginal in comparison. There was a local watering spot in Madagascar you could only peruse if you brought half the regiment along. I was a soldier for the Empire in the worst dregs in her reach, my tastes may run to the more refined, but they are not exclusive to that end. So yes, I know my beers."

As the man turned back to the front, Lestrade glanced in a guilty manner at his profile. "I apologise Doctor, I once again point out I am not a cultured man, which tends to make me indescribably rude at times. I pray your indulgence."

Watson nodded, "Of course, you have it, my apologies at being so short."

Lestrade tipped his hat, and they continued the trip to Diagones with a more friendly air.

-

They had been given admittance with no trouble, led through corridors lined with antiques that would make the museum society instantly envious, ushered up the stairs to an elaborately carved door at the end of a long corridor, where a secretary waited, whom was doing his best impression of a Buckingham guard. He deigned to eye them with a weary disgust before he took Watson's summons and studied it with a jeweller's careful eye, before opening the door standing to the side arching one perfectly plucked eyebrow. Watson handed the man his over coat and hat, cracked a lopsided grin. "If you would air those for me, I should be ever so obliged, the inspector's as well, there's a lad."

Lestrade did his best not to grin as he piled his atop the Doctor's, nodding in a way that he had seen the upper class use for those under, following the Doctor inside. He heard an affronted sniff before the door shut behind them.

Mycroft was grazing in the expensive remains of an early lunch as they entered. He did not rise to greet them, but rather waved them to two chairs situated near his desk. Doctor Watson walked past the chairs and the rotund man to gaze out of the window. "Nice view, Mycroft, is this were you spin your webs?"

Lestrade winced and settled into one of the chairs that were indicated. Mycroft blotted his lips on a napkin, and turned to the window and Watson. "You have obstinately ignored my summons for nearly a year now, I should like to know why."

Watson turned to Mycroft, leaning on his cane. "With all of the surveillance you have kept me under, I felt a face to face encounter would have been redundant. You know exactly where I live and conduct my affairs, if your summons had any importance to it, you would have visited me yourself."

Lestrade squirmed in the expensive chair. Surely, the Doctor knew the power of the man in front of him, whom he was addressing in such a dismissive manner. Then again, he had never known Watson to be this outwardly rude, even when he was castigating Doctor St. Cloud, he had shown more decorum than he was displaying now. There had to be reasoning at work here.

Mycroft and the Doctor held each other's gaze, getting the measure of their opponent. Finally, Mycroft seem to nod to himself. "Very well Doctor, I shall bear that in mind in the future. Would you care to sit?"

Watson nodded graciously and took a seat beside Lestrade.

_The games that gentlemen play will always be lost on me_, Lestrade thought with a sub-audible sigh, _which is not a fact I lament, however_.

"You are not here in answer to my summons, you just used it to gain admittance to these halls, I am going to assume it is because of this impostor that has taken an interest in my brother's affairs," Mycroft stated as the Doctor settled with his cane across his legs.

Watson nodded.

Mycroft reached into his desk and pulled out a silver bell, which he rang, a servant entered just long enough to remove the trays and pour Mycroft a small glass of what looked to be Port. Doctor Watson turned down his glass, but Lestrade accepted his, grateful for the balm to his nerves.

Mycroft smiled, but it was predatory. "Oh I see, dear Doctor, alcohol this early in the day is not a good habit for a man with your family history."

Lestrade froze with the glass to his lips; he glanced to his companion to see if there was a reaction. Watson just laughed. "We are here to confer on your family, dear Mycroft, mine is superfluous to that discussion."

Mycroft's answering smile was sphinx like, "That remains to be seen, but very well."

He pulled out an envelope similar to the one that Lestrade had in his possession. Watson reached for it. "I assume you have done more than peruse it?" Mycroft studied the port. "Of course, it has been analyzed thoroughly, no smudges or fibres, it is close to Sherlock's hand, ink and stationary."

Lestrade hated to say anything, that was counterproductive to staying invisible, but he had to know. "Close to your brother's hand, so you have excluded him as the author?"

Mycroft's gray eyes found Lestrade like a wolf searching for easy prey. "It is a very clever forgery, but I am certain it was not written by my brother."

Lestrade tried not to squirm under the scrutiny. "How so, how is it that you are so sure, If I may ask?"

Mycroft and Watson exchanged a look, Watson nodded.

"My brother was not a man of easy affection or sentiment; those letters were written with both," Mycroft explained after sipping the last of his Port.

Lestrade lost himself for a moment. "So you know Holmes did not write those letters because they are too maudlin and loving?" he blurted.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the outburst. Lestrade tried not to melt under his gaze but it took an exercise of will.

Watson refolded the letter, and slipped it back into the sleeve. "You had to know Holmes personally, Lestrade, any affection the man showed was indirect at its most effusive, his correspondence even more so. The person who wrote those letters is only acquainted with the fictional characterization of Holmes, not the actual man," he responded kindly.

Lestrade nodded as if he understood, but he had no frame of reference. He knew Sherlock Holmes in connection with his work, the man was cold, efficient, and calculating but Lestrade had always assumed he was different to those for which he held fondness. To find they had been subject to the same behaviour was somewhat comforting that his treatment had not been because of personal avarice. It was still a mystery to Lestrade, that Watson had such a loyalty to a man who must have been extremely hard to know.

Watson handed the letter back to Mycroft. "There is nothing in that letter that I could not find in my own. What are your thoughts, Mycroft; you are the foremost master of deductive reasoning left in the Isle after all."

Mycroft studied Watson's face seemingly, for some sign of disingenuous intent, showing Lestrade the large man, for all of his study of Watson, still did not know the man very well at all.

Mycroft picked up an elaborate letter opener, studying it as if he had never seen it before, his eyes disinterested and unfocused. With a start, Lestrade realized that the act of focusing on a neutral object while recounting facts deduced was something he had seen the man's younger brother do many times. Outside of the gray eyes, and some facial features in common, it had never occurred to Lestrade that the man in front of him had been involved in the training of his remarkable sibling. Maybe Holmes was closer to his brother than Lestrade had ever realized, he tucked that away in the file in his brain that contained his Mycroft observations and focused on the man's words.

"These letters are too organized, too focused to be the work of a man unstable enough to believe himself someone else," Mycroft stated.

"So he may have a more stable mind at hand to keep him on task," Watson prodded.

Mycroft nodded. "This impostor, however, is mercurial, brilliant, has an analytical mind and a bearing similar to my late brother, and a striking resemblance to the aforementioned, if my sources are to be believed."

Watson leaned forward on his cane, and stared off a few moments. "We are dealing with a larger conspiracy here; this man is not operating alone, but with other hands assisting. What can he possibly hope to prove? You and I can give dispute to his identity at any time in this venture. "

"He will not allow you to do so, I would be cautious in the next days, Doctor." Mycroft stated.

Watson nodded at the window. "The man who followed us from Kensington is much better than the last attempt at surveillance you sent, Mycroft. This one is well trained in espionage. Either unofficial or official I know not. He is out there, but I cannot pick him out for the life of me."

Lestrade shot up in the seat. "We were followed? How have you determined this?"

Watson grinned. "I noticed when I stopped to check the paper that another hansom stopped just at the corner up the block; it did not take on a new passenger. It was too far away to make out the fare with just a cursory glance; this mystery man disembarked around the corner from us, and is watching the club as we speak."

Mycroft looked bored. "What makes you think I still have you under surveillance, Doctor?"

Watson reached into his coat and pulled out a wallet. "This belongs to Sergeant Garret Sweeny, late of her Majesties Royal Marines. He should learn to walk with more of a slouch. That military posture sticks out in the milling crowd. He should also watch the lads near Baker Street, when they bump him in the throng." He stood and placed the wallet on Mycroft's desk. "It might be part of the discipline to which he has devoted his life, but passing up a shoe shine upon occasion might also help." Watson said with a smile. "Thank you for the insight Mycroft, I believe I know our next stop, good day to you sir."

Lestrade stood to follow, wanting to stay close to the Doctor's back, but he stopped at the door when Mycroft called out, "Lestrade, a word if you please."

The tone was light, but the implied order was not.

Lestrade cursed his luck as he waved Watson on and turned back.

"Yes?"

Mycroft was studying Lestrade with a dark intensity. "The Doctor looks much improved, so do your arrest numbers. I take it the partnership has been productive?"

Lestrade nodded, eager to get out from under the man's magnifying glass as soon as was polite.

Mycroft leaned back; his chair moaned a second in protest. "I was not exaggerating the danger I referenced to the Doctor. He is not a man to seek self preservation, so I am making his wellbeing your concern."

Lestrade bristled. "You know as well as I that Doctor Watson will accept no coddling, or protection. The task you are giving me is an impossible one, sir."

Mycroft waved him to the door. "That is not my concern. Good day."

Lestrade surprised himself by walking forward and leaning on the desk more expensive than his humble homestead. "He does not trust you, or obey you, and he has no importance to government at large, why are you so invested in his welfare?"

Mycroft glanced at the Chief Inspector's hands on his polished desktop as if composing a memo to a functionary to buff it later. "You are keeping the good Doctor waiting, Chief Inspector."

Lestrade was livid. He turned and nearly knocked over the stiff gentleman from earlier, pointedly holding his overcoat and hat, accepting the items he stormed out.

He caught up with Watson at the bottom of the stairs. He flashed that lopsided grin which only infuriated Lestrade worse. He stalked by the Doctor on his way to the doors.

"Major John Watson, late of the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, and the 66th Berkshire Foot in Afghanistan, as I live and breathe," exclaimed a voice from their left.

Standing in the entrance to an elaborate salon filled with mingling older, opulently dressed men with military postures, was a large white haired man with a ruddy complexion and a nose made red from too much libation.

Watson's face shut down to a coldness that Lestrade had rarely seen in the man. "General Hamilton, you are looking well."

The man waved off the compliment. "You should know, you gave me enough physicals that year, are you joining the club, dear boy? I've put you up for membership seven times in good standing, you have more than earned your place among us. I was told you had declined, but I did not give that credence."

"You should give it credence, sir, for it is my intention to never join your club," Watson said adamantly. **(2)**

The man's blood shot brown eyes flashed anger. "I read your report to your superiors. I know your opinions on the campaign we waged for the Empire, if anyone should have understood our intent it was you, and yet you feel worthy to stand in judgement of every decision made with no idea of the perspective from which we made them!"

Watson tucked his cane under his arm giving the man a glare that Lestrade knew meant trouble for the old soldier in front of him. "I know your perspective. It was from two hundred miles away, certainly not close enough to hear the cries of the dying. I get enough reminiscences of your days of "Glory" from my nightmares; the only men, with whom I would share those stories, remain buried in a mass grave at Maiwand. You may reserve my place in the club for someone with less blood on their conscious, good day, sir."

He turned and strolled out. Lestrade followed, his own irritation forgotten.

They hailed a cab, told no destination and rode for the first block in silence. Lestrade glancing furtively at his companion, the man revealed nothing in his expression, but the look in his eyes were far away from London.

"Where are we heading next, Doctor?" Lestrade prompted gently.

Watson returned from his revelry with a smile for his partner. "Sorry, something Mycroft said about our companion made me realize, this man is highly intelligent, you said he remains a step ahead of the Yard, no small feat, but why would someone this clever seek to imitate a man who he cannot possibly supplant or replace."

Lestrade shrugged, "He's mentally deficient, in some manner."

Watson flashed that lopsided grin. "My thoughts precisely."

He tapped the hansom roof with his cane. "the Sanatorium at Carfax", with speed, if you should shake the gentleman in the cab following, there's and extra schilling in it."

He turned to Lestrade as the hansom sped up, "This might get a bit bumpy, old boy," he remarked with a wink.

_That's what I'm afraid of_. Lestrade thought to himself as he held onto his hat.

* * *

**Story Notes:** I think when you look at the friendship of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes it is the tale of two brothers. Both Watson and Holmes had brothers that they felt little or no affection for, so in a way they made their own. Mycroft seemed to have a certain jealousy toward Watson, maybe because he was the brother Mycroft could not bring himself to be. This is a theme I hope to explore in some depth later.

**(2)** The picture shows, beware the famed Watson bullpup is loose!


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Notes:** I was apprehensive when I first began this endeavor about the chemistry between Lestrade and Watson. My fear was that it would become too Holmes/Watson and that would defeat the purpose of trying to establish John Watson's credentials as a crime fighter in his own right. What I discovered through the process, however, was that Lestrade's dogged determination, and crass bluntness mixed with Watson's empathic perception, and medical knowledge and gentle pawky humour created an entirely different dynamic, one that has been a BLAST to write. These two work very well together. I sincerely hope that shines through. I think it does especially in the banter in this chapter!

I do have to comment that Doctor Watson's emotions do get the best of him at times, when Giles Lestrade is the restraining hand something must be amiss! I think it has to do that there are some subjects that are still raw with the dear man, some threads that are still loose that you pull at your peril. Doctor St. Cloud can give you testimony to that fact! But it is part of the humanity of a well rounded character, and like I mentioned I'm not entirely in control at times!

I hope those pictures in the profile add to the experience, there is a new one for this chapter.

Once again, these are Doyles' boys, just taking them for a bit of a stroll.

Clea, however, belongs to aragonite...so don't hurt me ladies.

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 2**

**Impostor**

**Chapter Three**

The hansom came to a rolling stop. Lestrade did not even wait until it completely halted before hurling himself to the cobbled street, leaning over and holding his knees trying to regain his breath.

Watson stepped off behind him. "Looks like we lost our shadow, here's that schilling," he tipped his hat to the young hansom driver. "Off you go, there's a lad."

As the carriage bustled off, he patted Lestrade on the back. "Are you well, old boy?" His voice held the edge of a humour repressed.

Lestrade straightened up glaring at his companion. "That was entirely unnecessary, we had a better chance to dodge our follower on foot, and you know it."

Watson tapped the brim of his hat with his cane. "Yes but now the blood is pumping, admit it, dear fellow, you feel innervated."

Lestrade growled, "What I feel...is nauseated."

Watson winked. "That's the spirit, have you recovered enough to proceed?"

Lestrade glared, and swept his arm to indicate Watson should go first. He did not miss the amused chuckle as Watson led them to the tall wrought iron gates. The limp that had crept into his companion's stride did not escape him either. The tumultuous cab ride had obviously not done Watson's war injuries any favours. Lestrade knew better than remark upon it, but if it got any more pronounced he would call off the chase. The Doctor would not be worsening his injuries while Lestrade stood idly by, Watson's pride be damned.

"Why Carfax, Doctor, there are at least four other Sanatoriums in London?" he asked as they were permitted through into the large common contained within the gates. There were families visiting with catatonic loved ones on benches among the topiary. There were some chilling cries, immediately muffled in the western wing of the dour monolithic gray brick building. Lestrade did not see a place of healing when he eyed this structure, but a Gothic horror not found outside of the Tower itself. This gaol was a holding place, not an infirmary from which you re-emerge healed.

"Yes, simply ghastly, isn't it?" Doctor Watson remarked. "I recall correspondence that Holmes received on numerous occasions from a Doctor of Psychiatry that has his practice here. This man was exceedingly adamant that a study of Holmes and his remarkable brain and thought processes would advance mankind's knowledge of a possible next evolutionary plateau or some such rubbish. If there was a unique case of someone intelligent enough to emulate Holmes, he would be likely to know the subject."

Lestrade scoffed. "I should think that Holmes would not have found the endeavour of a study of the superiority of his mind, entirely objectionable."

Doctor Watson paused and shot Lestrade a warning frown to let the man know he was trespassing on a subject best left unremarked. Lestrade, to his credit, immediately fell silent.

They entered the interior, which was cheerily decorated and adorned with bright colours, it seemed almost inviting if you did not hear the cries and calls of the infirm from somewhere on the grounds. There was a receptionist with permanent smile affixed, but with an unsettling empty-eyed stare, waiting to greet them.

Doctor Watson switched into that charming persona that Lestrade had seen him use from time to time. He managed to make his face softer, his eyes more earnest and his smile lit up bright like a gas light. "We are here to see Doctor Bedlow, if the chap is not too busy that is." The receptionist noticeably relaxed, and smiled. "I believe he is with a patient at the moment." Watson frowned. "That is indeed too bad; I was hoping to see the dear boy today." The receptionist suddenly stood like it was of the upmost priority to see if the doctor was available. "Whom shall I say is here to see him?" Watson grinned. "Doctor Watson, and an acquaintance, thanks ever so much." She nodded, and strode off down the west corridor.

He rubbed his jaw as if it were sore, and caught Lestrade's amused stare. "Do you think you can teach me that technique, it might be useful in my work?" Watson studied Lestrade's features for a moment. "Probably not," he remarked. Lestrade glowered as the receptionist returned.

Watson turned the charm back on as she approached. "He forgot to tell me that he finished with that patient. He has a few minutes if you would follow me," she informed. Watson nodded and Lestrade and he trailed the young woman down to one of the many doors in the corridor. She opened one with the nameplate Doctor Gustav Bedlow, PhD, PPC, MH and stood to the side, beaming as Watson passed. For Lestrade, however her look was one of mere indulgent tolerance. He restrained himself from glaring at her as he followed the Doctor in.

Doctor Gustav Bedlow was not what Lestrade expected the man moved swiftly out from behind his desk and his thin spare frame swooped down on Watson's extended hand like an eager carrion crow. His black bushy beard matching hair and hollow ringed eyes caused Lestrade to wonder how they told doctor from patient. "Watson, my dear friend, welcome, introduce me to your companion."

Lestrade gamely took the brunt of a crushing grip as he was introduced, "My associate Chief Inspector Giles Lestrade." Doctor Bedlow's eager blue gray eyes seem to flit back and forth restless, causing Lestrade to check his pupils for redness or telltale signs of inebriation.

"I am assuming you are here about the Sherlock Holmes currently bandying about London?" he said perching on the edge of his desk leaning forward studying the two men as they settled into seats he had offered them.

Watson and Lestrade exchanged a glance, Lestrade nodded for him to go ahead, but he made sure Watson saw caution in his eyes.

Watson turned to the doctor. "We would appreciate any insight you might have."

The man lunged off the desk, causing Lestrade and Watson to start, but he just began to circulate the room as he spoke his long arms almost flapped causing Lestrade to wonder if the man was going to be air borne at some point. "I have tried to gain meetings with Holmes over the years, he has turned me down consistently, rather rudely at times, and I was disappointed to hear about his death."

Lestrade was appalled that the tones of the man's voice seem to indicate that he had been upset over the loss of opportunity rather than the death of a man. Watson's jaw clenched showing that he had caught that implication as well, but they both let the man continue his ramble.

Bedlow spun and leaned on his desk. "I am eager to point out that there was, however, no body found, and Holmes has been spied throughout the world by certain members of the fifth estate."

"Rumours, that is all." Watson stated between his clenched teeth, Lestrade saw his knuckles getting white around the head of his cane.

Bedlow let out a laugh. "Rumours, yes, but they are pervasive are they not? I am curious as to why you are not willing to give them credence."

Watson gave the man one of his patented death stares. "We are not here to discuss me; we are here to find out what you know about this imposter," he snapped.

Bedlow smirked as if Watson's reaction has some significance. Lestrade was beginning to remember why he hated head shrinkers so much.

"Of several acceptable explanations for a phenomenon, the simplest is preferable." Bedlow said airily. "If nobody was present at the site of Sherlock Holmes' supposed death, and he has been viewed at other times, in other places, and suddenly someone appears in London with his features, habits, abilities and has been testified as legitimate by those who met the previous incarnation, then this man might very well be no impostor after all."

Bedlow returned to his perch at the end of his desk. "Maybe this Sherlock Holmes will be more forthcoming about submitting to analysis."

Watson leapt to his feet. Lestrade could see him contemplating many things that were not in the realms of the legal. Therefore, he stood and placed a restraining arm on his companion's shoulder gently nudging the man towards the door. "Do not be a stranger, dear Watson, I should hope to talk again someday." Bedlow called as they made the door.

They were walking down the hallway, with Lestrade trying to come up with consoling words to say, most of his thoughts were of invectives aimed at the insufferable academic whose office they just vacated when Watson stopped.

"Occam's razor," he blurted, turning to Lestrade. "Do you have your pistol on you?"

Lestrade had only time to nod before Watson was walking back up the corridor. He tried the door to Bedlow's office. The receptionist from earlier was walking up the hallway towards them. Watson turned to Lestrade. "Be ready for an arrest." Then he, in a vicious manner, levelled a kick at the bottom of the doorframe causing the door to break open. Lestrade came through the door first, pistol drawn, wondering if his suddenly aggressive companion had come down with some type of dementia.

The room that met his eye was empty, except for a window that was blowing curtains in the breeze, a window that had not been open before. Watson crossed the room to look out around at the facia to the sides. "There is a buttress large enough for someone to walk upon, he is already gone."

Watson turned, sighed, and leaned against the windowsill.

The receptionist was staring wide-eyed at the door as a crowd gathered to see what had occurred. Lestrade flashed his badge at them to keep them at bay. "If that wasn't Doctor Bedlow, who was it?" He asked low enough for just Watson to hear.

Watson rubbed his forehead in sudden weariness. "He was right here in the same room with us Lestrade, just a step away; I nearly had my fingers around his scrawny neck."

Lestrade caught on. "The impostor...was posing as Doctor Bedlow?"

Watson nodded.

"Bloody hell," Lestrade remarked, "what a cheeky bastard."

Doctor Watson gave him a lopsided grin. "Language, Lestrade you are representing the Yard after all."

Lestrade resisted giving him a gesture that would not have been fitting for a Yard officer either.

Watson suddenly got that intense dissecting look on his face. "He would not have been here all day, a man with that much energy would have had things he wanted to do. He must have been the Doctor's last patient."

Lestrade followed his reasoning. "Why would he be visiting the Doctor now?"

"That is the question." Watson remarked.

Watson walked over to what appeared to be a supply closet of some kind. He pulled the door open.

Inside was the real Doctor Gustav, seated in a chair with his eyes staring but blank, his sleeve rolled up and his arm extended with a needle sticking out of the vein, there was a pool of blood under his clenched fist.

"I don't think Doctor Gustav is going to be answering it, however."

-

The next hour was a productive one with Watson doing what he did best with the victim, while Lestrade attempted to find any documentation on the mystery patient. They both agreed that Bedlow was somehow directly involved in the mystery Holmes development, so he was searching though he was not sure for what. The crowd in the hallway had waxed and waned, with on-lookers being held back by a couple of constables summoned from the street.

Lestrade straightened up, popping his back in pain, he had been looking through patient logs, trying to see if a name came up in continuity, there were several but when he checked the corresponding records he found that they did not fit the physical description he and Watson had agreed on. Tall, over six foot, thin less than one-hundred and ninety pounds, blue-gray eyes since eye colour could not be faked, it was not much to go on, but it helped narrow the search.

"Lestrade, if you are free..." Doctor Watson called.

Lestrade welcomed the chance for a distraction. He stepped into the supply closet, which felt claustrophobic, and was beginning to smell from the body, but once again, Watson seemed immune.

"I have determined that my friend Gustav here was overdosed with Morphine, that he had a significant ongoing addiction to it, and that he was not capable of dosing himself." Watson remarked. He looked at Lestrade and added. "This man was murdered, I can prove it."

Lestrade gestured for him to continue, even though he had seen the Doctor work many times now, it never ceased to amaze him what the man could uncover from a corpse. With Holmes, Lestrade could rarely follow the man's line of reasoning, mostly because so much of it took place in the cerebral detective's own mind, but with Watson, there was always a story to follow that fit the facts at hand. Lestrade normally could follow the man's line of reasoning, and so far, had found few deviations when the facts of the case established themselves later.

Watson pointed to Bedlow's beard. "I smelled Chloroform when I first checked, the vapours dissipate after a time, I think a simple chemical reaction on the hairs of his beard will prove that substance was used to keep him subdued, of course that proves little." He pointed to the band of rubber tubing, tied off around Bedlow's arm. "This is irrefutable, that tourniquet was tied by someone else."

"How do you prove that?"Lestrade prompted.

Doctor Watson sighed, as if recalling a painful memory. "I know a bit about self-injection, since you have one arm being tied off, you have to use your teeth to pull the knot tight, or use a clamp on one end."

He pointed to Bedlow's desk; there was a small medical clamp on the desktop clearly well out of reach.

Lestrade shrugged. "So he used his teeth."

Watson's moustache cocked to one side in that familiar grin. "Au contraire, Mon Cher policier."

Lestrade rolled his eyes at the French, and gestured for Watson to get on with the explanation.

Watson gently rubbed the corpses jaw line. There was an audible click. Lestrade leaned forward to try to see what caused it. "Temporomandibular joint disorder, a partial dislocation of the jaw, it is a chronic condition," the Doctor explained, "At this stage in his degeneration, he would have been in constant pain, which explains the needle tracks and Morphine addiction. For a man who made a living from lecturing and talking, this would have been a crucial secret." Watson stood and looked at the man in the chair with compassion. "He did not have the bite strength to pull a knot tight with rubber tubing, not tight enough to be a tourniquet anyway, not without Morphine already in his system; I doubt at this point the man could chew solid food."

Lestrade winced at the thought. "I knew that our impostor was getting increasingly violent, I have a thug in the hospital that might never regain use of his legs, but he progressed to murder rather quickly."

Watson shot a look at Lestrade. "He beat a man that badly?"

Lestrade sighed. "I found that letter to you in that man's coat pocket; he was dumped at the Yard gates."

Watson rubbed his eyes, looking tired. "Yet another fact that would have been tremendously nice to know, Lestrade."

Lestrade studied his shoes.

Watson walked past him into the office. "How goes the search for our mystery patient?"

Lestrade strolled past and closed the ledger he had been perusing. "The records are all encoded for patient privacy; I'm not even supposed to be looking through them without a warrant. We could be here for hours sifting though these records even with permission."

Watson sat down in the Doctor's desk chair. He swiveled to look at the door into the hallway. "This is a hospital, so there is one record we could check that would save us time."

"Oh?" Lestrade remarked following the Doctor's line of sight. There was a collection of women some in nurse uniforms having a discussion out in the hallway. "Oh." Lestrade stated.

Doctor Watson rotated back to Lestrade. "I can get the information, but we need to find the source of gossip for this wing. She should be in that group there."

Lestrade smirked. "Stand back, Doctor Watson, you may be best at sweet talking the ladies, but I am the expert on nosey females."

Watson looked alarmed. "You are not referring to your dear wife, are you?"

Lestrade shook his head in a vigorous way and exclaimed, "Of course not."

"Good, I would disagree, with the utmost conviction,"

Lestrade winked at the Doctor. "Don't tell me that the great veteran of one of the bloodiest massacres the British Army has ever endured is frightened by a small Lanky woman."

Watson smirked. "Four-thousand Ghazis charging with scimitars calling to their god for my death is one thing, Clea is another thing entirely."

Lestrade scoffed. "Coward."

Watson shrugged. "So… expert, find me the biggest source of gossip on this floor."

Lestrade peered into the group. "She would be the most matronly, have an air of self-righteous hauteur, she would be unappealing or unattractive in some manner, else she would have too much business of her own to be nosy about others."

He walked to the door. "Madam, might we have a word."

The woman he had singled out, walked stiff backed into the office. She was exactly what Lestrade had been describing. She glared at the two men. "What do you need? I have matters I need to attend to."

Lestrade and Watson exchanged a look, passing up the obvious point that the lady in question had been idly chatting in the hallway just before.

Watson received the go ahead from Lestrade. "We know that the nurses are the real eyes and ears of the hospital, we need some information on a patient, it could very well be life and death," he informed her his kindness apparent, indicating the supply closet.

Her homely face pinched in disdain. "I always knew the needle would end him," she stated her voice flat with no emotion or sympathy. Watson studied her for a moment, figuring out his tact. "He was murdered, Miss…?"

"Burr, Nurse Regina Burr." She informed in an impatient tone.

"Nurse Burr," Watson began in his placating voice, "we have proof that Doctor Bedlow was murdered, we think by one of his patients, maybe one that he had a particular attachment to. The man is tall, thin, has blue-gray eyes and is extraordinarily bright about remembering detail, has exceptional abilities at mimicry, but was sheltered or naïve."

She studied Watson's eyes as if gauging his sincerity. She nodded to the desk he was in. "In that top drawer is a black book, in it are Gustav's notes on experiments that he conducted off the record, you are looking for patient J. The key was in Doctor Bedlow's coat pocket. What he did to that boy was evil; I hope he burns in everlasting torment, God forgive me. Good luck."

She strolled out.

Watson and Lestrade stared after her in shock.

"I told you." Lestrade remarked, breaking the silence.

Watson went back into the supply closet long enough to retrieve the key, he used it on the drawer that was indicated. He held up the thick black book in triumph.

Lestrade tried reading over the man's shoulder but he gave up after the first few lines of medical jargon. The Doctor started, stood to his feet and began to pace. "I find Nurse Burr and I are now in agreement, Doctor Bedlow deserved all the pain he received in life, and I have never so much wanted to believe in karma." Doctor Watson avowed with an angry growl. **(3)**

He looked up to Lestrade with fury lighting his eyes. "He is talking of complete ego sublimation, and an implantation of a new persona."

Lestrade sighed. "Please explain in North-side terminology, Doctor."

Watson closed his eyes, breathing deeply before continuing. "He found a brilliant man who was so abused that he was pretending to be any one but himself, rather than treat his condition; he chose to experiment. Using false memory implantation, he eradicated any link the young man had with his original identity, and made him into a cipher, a blank slate, someone who could be anyone with such ability as to completely blend in. All for the sake of experimentation, he turned a man into a lab rat."

Lestrade was beginning to get the image. "So this patient could actually become other people?"

Watson turned the pages. "He was able to pose as a lawyer, a magistrate, a street vendor, a policeman, worked at a charity hospital as a doctor and…"

Lestrade looked at the phrase to which the doctor was pointing.

"Since Sherlock Holmes will not submit to psycho analysis, I will create my own."

Lestrade sat down heavily in one of the chairs. "He made someone into Sherlock Holmes?"

Watson nodded his eyes grave. "The process was not a complete success, the impostor is breaking down, and he is in deep denial. He is not Sherlock Holmes and part of him realizes that, but rather than accept that and let his own individuality reassert itself, he is destroying all ties he has to his former life, and the next step is to eliminate anyone who might have a dissenting opinion to offer."

Lestrade shot up in the seat. "He's going to come after you."

Watson nodded. "At this juncture, we can consider it inevitable."

* * *

**Story Notes:** The condition of our mystery impostor is not entirely in the realm of fiction.

There is a condition called dissociative identity disorder which was at one time called multiple personality disorder, it is caused by massive amounts of abuse which causes someone, especially someone extremely bright, to loose all identity because of a fractured self-image. That person can assimilate other identities with frightening ease. It has also been thought a form of autism might be a contributing factor.

For real life examples of what is humanly possible, check out the story of Frank Abignale Jr. who became just through sheer guts and intelligence a lawyer, doctor, airline pilot not to mention impersonating an FBI agent and other functionaries along with escaping from various prisons in a period of just four years!

In the turn of the last century Mental Health professionals treated patients like experimental animals, they still do today, but in those days of "frontier medicine" methodology was often brutal and the practitioners were nearly as crazy as the people they were professing to cure. (Check out the freak show that was Sigmund Freud if you have doubts.) So the idea that a doctor would use someone in such a manner as the one I propose, is unfortunately the least fictional part of this chapter.

**(3)** Check out my profile for the corresponding image.

**Bart**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Notes:** This is a scary chapter for me. There are certain events in plot driven stories were things come to a head, there is a climax after a build up and it either justifies whats come before or makes it moot. I have read story after story that commits the sin of being anti-climatic, I do my best to not be a perpetrator.

I have been working on this chapter since chapter one, either you find it enjoyable or contrived, there is a VERY thin line to walk there. I believe I have not crossed it, but only time and reviews will tell.

My version of the Baker Street Irregulars has been taken from Shedoc's Observations on a Lodger. I used several of her names in this chapter. Wiggins, however, is Doyle's boy.

I know that Watson is a straight-forward, guileless individual and this chapter has him being a bit more secretive than we are used to the chap being, but I think his reasons are sound. The fight scene might bother some people but I think it shows a significant side to his character.

Once again he and Lestrade show they are a great couple of blokes, the banter was a blast to write. I was telling someone the other day that Holmes brought out the gentleman in Watson, but Lestrade brings out the soldier and fighter in him, so if his nature has taken a shift I feel it is because of a new dynamic that was never in the Sherlock Holmes stories, and that's my theory.

I hope you enjoy!

Once again all belongs to Arthur C. Doyle, all hail the king.

**Bart  
**

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 2**

**Impostor**

**Chapter Four**

After the revelations of Doctor Bedlow's transgressions, and the Yard officers arrived to take over the scene and transport the body, Watson suggested he and Lestrade take late tea at a local restaurant he was acquainted with. To Lestrade's surprise, and trepidation, the same cab in which they had their earlier wild ride, swung back around the block to pick them up.

He hesitated to embark, but Doctor Watson gave him a tired but amused smile, which he took as a challenge, so he climbed aboard. He was sweating and his knuckles turned white as he got a good grip before the cab took off.

The establishment, a small bistro called Tarbury's, was middling, but not in a cheap way. The clientele was a mix of gentry and middle class, the green curtains and dark wood furnishings, while not opulent, were tasteful.

Lestrade had just stirred in his second lump of sugar when he realised that his partner had gone quiet.

"A farthing for your thoughts, Watson," he prodded.

Watson came back from where his thoughts had taken him. "I was just thinking about how much I miss Holmes on days like this."

Lestrade tried to keep the offense out of his voice but he was not sure he managed. "In what way was I inferior to inspire such a reflection?"

"Don't be dramatic, Lestrade, it was I who was the lesser today," Watson remarked, "I was the one that missed the obvious signs that the impostor was standing right before our eyes." He sighed, rubbing his temples in weariness. "He never called me Doctor once, a clear violation of courtesy given to a peer; as a matter of fact he called me, dear friend, and consciously used my surname to address me as Holmes was wont to do. He even used Holmes favourite quote right out in front of me, and I failed to notice until it was too late." His fatigued hazel eyes found Lestrade. "You rely on my perceptions, and my observations, but it is quite possible that I am more of a handicap than I am a help."

Lestrade smirked. "Now who is being dramatic?"

Watson laid a hand on Lestrade's arm to accentuate what he was saying. "You must listen, Lestrade, evaluate me with no sentiment, with no emotion clouding your perception. Am I really a boon to you, or am I just another obstacle who occasionally has useful insights, but does not carry his weight?"

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Surely you are jesting? You cannot possibly be serious!"

"I am." Watson confirmed with conviction.

Lestrade wiped his mouth on a napkin and tossed it into the middle of the table in exasperation. "Watson, how can someone as accomplished and brilliant such as yourself, have doubts to your suitability?" Once again, Lestrade lamented his lack of subtle words, so he went with what he knew.

"You, sir, are being a colossal ass."

Watson seemed stunned by the bluntness, so Lestrade continued unabated. "In all of my years in the constabulary, I have never worked with someone who makes the people around him better to the extent that you do. That includes Sherlock Holmes."

Watson started to scoff but Lestrade held up a hand to his face in a manner that was rude, stopping his protestation.

"I know you defend Holmes at every opportunity, but let's be honest here, he was a weariness to work with, an absolute snob who took pride in rubbing the Yard's nose in our shortcomings. He was admirable to be sure, but to work with him side by side for more than a few hours at a time..." He shuddered to make his point.

Holding up a finger before Watson could interject. "I am not through, you asked, I am attempting to answer." Watson settled and indicated for him to continue.

Lestrade leaned in. "We used to draw straws to see who was the one to contact the man, you were the only bright spot in the endeavour when we had to call upon his talents. He made us all feel inadequate, and belittled, and insufficient." He made sure he had Watson's eye. "The ghost of Holmes and his abuse is haunting this conversation as we speak, expressing itself in your self-doubt. I saw that Doctor Bedlow was not stable; I looked for signs of inebriation, and still missed the same clues that you did. If you condemn yourself, then you must also condemn me."

Watson slumped. "I would never presume to do such a thing, Lestrade."

Lestrade nodded. "Of course not, which is why I am glad it was you I was with today, and not Holmes. I make no apologies for such an attitude."

Watson got a faraway look on his face, smiling. "He could be intolerable when he was in the right."

Lestrade sipped his tea nodding. "So if the self recrimination is over, what is the next step?"

Watson leaned back in his chair; he studied the head of his cane his face thoughtful. "This all seems orchestrated, an event sure to bring me into the fray occurs this morning, the same day that our impostor kills his tormentor, there is a bigger scheme here, but I cannot tell what it is."

Lestrade had a sudden thought. "It seems a bit Shakespearean doesn't it?"

Watson's eyes lit up. "Go on."

"Well we have the players introduced, the action has been established, the conflict is inevitable, unfortunately it seems to be headed for a tragic climax," Lestrade remarked.

"One question, when did you see Shakespeare?" Watson inquired with a lopsided grin.

Lestrade schooled his features into one of an affronted gentleman. "I'll have you know that I catch a show at the Globe upon occasion."

Watson shook his head in amusement. 'You mean you have been dragged to the Globe by your sweet little wife on occasion."

Lestrade shrugged. "You know how scary she can get."

Watson sniffed. "Coward."

The spent the next moments in companionable silence, he noticed that Watson was writing something on his napkin, which he folded. They took care of the bill, and started to leave, Lestrade glanced back and saw the young bus boy read the napkin then clean the table without even looking up or acknowledging any message.

As they made the street, he saw Watson glance around; he seemed to nod to himself.

A man with a limp and a scar on his cheek, approached, Lestrade noticed he had furtive eyes. He had a cab held at the corner. "Doctor Watson, I've been looking all over Pinckney for you sir."

Watson leaned in to Lestrade. "Third act, old boy, try not to be late."

The man held out his hand with a note, "It's my auntie, sir, she's gotten worse; here is a letter to you, so you'll know I'm on the up."

Watson perused the letter. "And so you are, I'm sorry Lestrade, this needs my immediate attention." He pulled out a schilling and held it out until Lestrade took it. "I will catch up to you later. Why don't you have a shoe shine on me?" He nodded toward the corner. There was a little boy setting up his stand.

Lestrade was about to protest but the Doctor was already climbing aboard the cab, and they were on their way.

Lestrade felt confused by the sudden turn of events. Why would Watson take off in mid case, that "auntie" must have been in straights most dire to pull him away? What did he mean by, _third act_, and _try not to be late_?

Needing a moment to himself to think, he took Watson's advice, heading for the little boy and his kit.

Lestrade flipped the bob to the shaver, which he caught out of the air with ease. Lestrade settled onto the stool provided, placing his shoe on the stand. The boy began to survey the damage, setting about his work.

"We don have much time, guv' so gives us a listen," the lad informed. "It's important you don act like nuthins goin on."

Lestrade nodded.

"My name is Charlie, I'm one o' tha Irregulars, tha Doc's been in contact wit us since this morning. He sent a message to Two Eye Tommy, who runs for the poth'cary, ta watch Miz Hudson, he left a message for lil' Bobby in a paper ta watch for a tail on your cab, and ta send for Geezer to pick him up outside of tha' big club."

Lestrade tried to absorb all of the information. "Watson's been planning something?"

Charlie glowered at him. "Of corse, you don think a man makes Major in the service without pickin up some skills, do ya? Now do ya wanna hear tha rest?"

Lestrade nodded.

"He didn't want you to know cuz he thought youse were being watched, and he suspected that there was more than to it than a loon runnin around thinkin he's 'olmes. Sure enough two men forced their way inta Baker Street at noon, they got Mizz Hudson squared and tha crazy joined them less than an hour ago, Doc's gon to join'em now, he told us not to interfere. He's goin ta keep tha fake 'olmes busy upstairs while we save Mizz Hudson, then we're going ta give him the signal to take out that bloke. He wan's you to trust him to take care of it, to just 'elp us save Mizz Hudson."

"That fake Holmes is dangerous, he's already beat up a man twice his size so badly he might never walk again, I don't know if the Doctor could have taken him when he was in top shape." Lestrade murmured.

Charlie looked positively appalled. "You doubt tha Doc? When tha man sez sumpthin, we take it as gospel."

Lestrade realized that here was the impasse the Doctor had spoken of, here were the two paths, could he trust the man?

He made his decision.

"Of course I trust Watson. Why all the subterfuge, though, why not plan it out in the open?"

Charlie buffed his shoes with the straight cloth while he talked, "Like I says, you got a man on your tail he couldn't find, the Doc couldn't be sure who was listening or readin lips, if that fake 'olmes saw anyone from the Yard on Baker Street, Mizz Hudson might very well be dead by now. It turns out there's one man tailin ya, he's got a knife, we think he wans to take you out, guv. We're makin sure that don happen."

Suddenly there was a whistle. Charlie smiled and looked up. "We got'em."

Lestrade shook his head. "What was I here for?"

Charlie shrugged. "Bait."

Lestrade glanced up where the whistling came from, and was discomfited to see that the hansom cab driver that nearly caused his untimely demise bustling about the streets of London that very morn. He was standing, with a bruise on his cheek looking happy with himself, with the lad who was the busboy at Tarbury's, that lad was giving orders to he and two urchins. With a start, Lestrade realized it was Wiggins, long time leader of the Irregulars. He had grown three inches and broader in the shoulder since the Inspector had seen the lad last, which was why he was not immediately recognizable.

He crossed to Lestrade. "Oy there, Chief Inspector, ow is ya?"

Lestrade held out his hand, as soon as the boy grasped it, Lestrade tightened his grip. "You didn't do anything dastardly to that man did you?"

Wiggins shrugged. "Jes gave 'im a bit o' a headache in that alleyway back there we did, he'll be up and evil in a bit, I'd have a constable take 'im to tha Yard slapped in bracelets before then if I was you. Nasty bit o' work he is. But do it fast, tha Doc and Mizz Hudson is in tha house with that loon and his two thug pals, we don have much time to dawdle."

Lestrade went to summon a constable, ordering the man to see to the transport of the unconscious thug to the Yard, while the tall and lanky boy they called Geezer waited with his cab, Wiggins aboard looking impatient.

They came to a sliding halt two blocks over from Baker Street. "We's cuttin across, guv, comin up tha back way, if tha 'olmes wannabe see's us a 'spects tha Doc isn't on tha up, he could kill'em." Wiggins explained. He hopped out of the cab, Lestrade followed, after prying his fingers loose from the hansom railing. Geezer tipped his hat and took off at breakneck speed. His part of the plan was to go get the Yarders, he had a hastily written note from Lestrade. They had a half an hour to save Miss Hudson and Doctor Watson before the constables showed up.

They made their way up through a narrow alleyway. Lestrade made conversation to ease his tension. "You Irregulars are going legit I see, all got jobs?"

Wiggins glanced at him in irritation, but answered him anyway. ""olmes liked to keep us down on tha street, cuz we were useful tha way, but Watson says, if you're gonna skip schooling you gotta have a trade, you're not gonna be young forever, then where is ya? So's he and Mizz Mary put their necks out and got us all work on tha legit side o' things. It's harder work but you got money in yer pocket more often than not."

"You knew Mary, then?" Lestrade inquired barely above a whisper as they crossed between another line of houses. Wiggins paused looking both ways, he looked over his shoulder at Lestrade, there was a pain in his eyes. "Yeah we all knew Mizz Mary, sweet lady, she was, like a mum to lil' Bobby and Charlie, Mizz Hudson and tha Doc's all we got left now, so if you don mind, I'd like to see them safe before some bloke carves'em up?"

Lestrade nodded for him to go on, to show Wiggins how serious he found the situation, he pulled his Beau-Adams pistol and checked the chambers before following.

They arrived at the back alley heading into Baker Street. Wiggins held a hand for him to stop, gave a low whistle and four more boys melted out of the shadows, they were so well concealed that it was unnerving. Lestrade was starting to see just how dangerous a force these boys actually were, it was like Holmes and Watson had a private well-trained army at their disposal, an army that Watson had been commanding since that morning, evidently right under Lestrade's nose. Just when Lestrade thought he knew what the man was capable of, Watson did something like this to make him re-evaluate yet again.

"What are the orders, guv?" Wiggins said as they boys closed in.

Lestrade gave the boy a strange look. "Who, me?"

Wiggins rolled his eyes, he pulled out the napkin that Watson had given him instructions on. Lestrade read it with trepidation.

_Come up the back way, Lestrade will know what to do, follow his orders as if they were mine, if he balks, show him this napkin._

Wiggins smirked as he handed it back. The boys looked at him eyes expectant, somewhere in 221 was a tenacious little gray-haired woman, in need of rescuing, and his dear friend was betting his life that Lestrade could save her in time. He did not like the thought of Watson at that moment up in 221b matching wits with that brilliant, unstable cipher while he was down here planning his next move.

_One problem at a time, you can do this, Lestrade._

"Where are they, and how many? Lestrade asked.

Wiggins nodded to a boy so soot covered his eyes shown like lamps out of the darkness. "Two, guv, they have Mizz Hudson in tha kitchen. The fake "olmes is upstairs, I saw the Doc go up."

Lestrade thought for a second, and then he remembered what Charlie had called him. _Bait._

"I need the most innocent and pitiful looking Irregular you have, it needs to be someone who can run fast."

They all hid in the alleyway as the small boy that Wiggins picked, one they called Newt, approached and knocked on the door, he entered without waiting for an answer, he then let out a cry of surprise and took off back toward the alley where they were concealed, Lestrade with his revolver, they with their makeshift clubs. As Lestrade had hoped, a large man gave chase he was two steps into the alleyway when Lestrade stepped out with his pistol lowered at the assailant's nose. The man, the same one that brought the note to Watson earlier, dropped the knife he had been holding. He looked amused, but when he saw the deadly intent in Lestrade's eyes, made no sound. Lestrade stepped forward and roughly relieved the him of his coat and hat. Lestrade put them on.

"Make sure he's no longer a threat; try not to do too much damage we need him to testify later." He informed Wiggins. The boys were on the man the next instant while Lestrade crossed to the still open door.

He backed in as if he was dragging someone. "Did you get that little scamp?" Inquired a rough voice. He heard a furious muffle that sounded like Mrs. Hudson. "Quiet, you." Came the angry command, and what sounded like a cuff upside a head.

Lestrade turned with his revolver out, he levelled it at the man's head, but found he had taken refuge behind Mrs. Hudson, he had a knife to her throat. "Look's like Mick missed the mark," he remarked. "You might want to lower that pea-shooter there, Inspector, you wouldn't want tha Missus here to grow a second mouth."

Lestrade glanced down to Mrs. Hudson, her eyes were chips of blue fire, a fierce anger at those who had violated her home, and one was finally in range. With a vicious twist of her head she rammed her skull into the man's nose knocking the man back with blood spurting from his nostrils, his eyes narrowed and he started to go for her, but Lestrade made sure the thug heard the hammer pulled back on his revolver. It was an ominous sound to be sure. Even so, the man seemed to be judging the distance between Mrs. Hudson and he, to see if he could stab her in time, then he saw his death in Lestrade's eyes and wisely dropped his knife.

He heard the boys run up the steps behind him, they quickly untied Mrs. Hudson, she scolded them for taking chances, but hugged them all the same. She turned to Lestrade as the boys trussed up the lone remaining accomplice. "Doctor Watson is up there with that mad man, save him." Her tone made that plea an order, the fierceness of her glare offered dire consequences should he fail.

Lestrade nodded. "Wiggins, give the Doctor the signal."

Wiggins nodded; he went out into the backyard, Lestrade's eyes followed and saw him pull a string of Chinese fireworks out of his coat pocket, and a lighter.

Lestrade headed to the door between 221a and 221b, Mrs. Hudson followed, but he stopped her. "Please, Doctor Watson wanted you safe, I gave him my word."

She looked grim, but then she nodded. "I'll make everyone tea for after, they'll probably be constables on their way."

Lestrade gave her a smile. She nodded and headed back to her kitchen.

There was the noise of explosive pops from the back yard. Immediately there were the sounds of a scuffle over head. Lestrade was about to charge up the stairs but he remembered what he was told.

"He wan's you to trust him to take care of it, to just 'elp us save Mizz Hudson."

_Trust_

It was all he could do not to run up with his pistol out, but Watson had his reasons. If Lestrade joined the fray, Watson's attention split between protecting Lestrade and the fake Holmes might have disastrous consequences. However, Lestrade's curiosity would not let him ignore the bedlam that was taking place overhead, especially when he heard a gunshot.

He eased into the stairwell, and made his way up, carefully watching for squeaky steps; he heard the sound of exertion and collisions, with a body hitting the floor hard. Then he heard a voice that sounded like the false Doctor Bedlow from before ringing out in triumph. "If you would have only accepted me back, John, if you had just thrown aside doubt, and believed, none of this would have been necessary. We could have had many more adventures, my dear Boswell."

Lestrade cracked open the door to the sitting room. It was a mess with overturned furniture, files all over the floor, there was a hat stand lying on its side, and there, in front of the fireplace on his back looking more rumpled than Lestrade had ever seen him, was Doctor Watson. The tall thin man, whom looked remarkably like Sherlock Holmes, was standing over him. He looked like he had just come through a war; his clothing in tatters, and his face covered with ash. He was checking the cylinders of a pistol.

Watson spoke into the silence. "There are two things you must know, before you finish this."

The fake Holmes gave him a patronizing smile. "What might those things be, dear Watson?"

Watson smiled grimly, his eyes bright with anger. "First, this is not a boxing circle, there are no rules." With that, he grabbed his cane, which had rolled under the couch and swung it viciously colliding with the impostor's knee, instantly knocking the man off his feet causing him to toss the gun away and bringing him down to Watson's level. Before he could recover, Watson bellowed, "And I'm not your bloody Boswell!" with all his remaining strength he landed one of the most perfect, hard right hooks Lestrade had ever seen to the other man's chin. The doppelganger fell onto his side insentient.

Lestrade rushed in to secure the gun.

Watson watched him with some amusement. "There are some shackles somewhere on the floor around that hat rack." He stated, pulling himself painfully off the floor where his last blow had landed him, to a sitting position. Lestrade found the restraints and had the charlatan Holmes cuffed before long.

"You know that bit with the cane and the knee wasn't exactly cricket," He remarked to Watson with a grin.

Watson shrugged. "He is down, is he not?"

Lestrade nodded remarking conversationally as he upended a chair and helped Watson into it, "That he is, but now what about that language I heard you use, "not your bloody Boswell", was not in keeping with vocab regulatory guidelines you know, remember, you are representing the Yard."

Watson gave him the look he deserved.

Lestrade once again noticed the ash on the now moaning impostor's face. "How did he get a face full of soot?"

Watson nodded to an Old Persian slipper hanging from the mantel. "Holmes kept his pipe ash hidden in it after he smoked his tobacco, for disposal later. I guess throwing it in his face was not cricket either," he finished with a sly lopsided grin

Lestrade's good-natured tsking was interrupted by the sound of rapid footsteps on the stairs. He had his gun out and ready, but it turned out to be Mrs. Hudson. She had a rolling pin in her right hand and a ferocious glare that would frighten the most hardened criminal into instant submission. Watson pulled himself to his feet, she dropped her weapon, and they hugged each other tight.

"Don't you ever frighten me like that again John Watson, do you hear me?" she scolded in a soft teary voice. "I'm sorry, dear lady, it will not happen again." He replied, stroking her greying hair. **(4)**

Lestrade began to step away to give them some privacy when Watson called out. "Don't go far, Lestrade, we are not done for the day, I'm afraid."

Mrs. Hudson let Watson go. "No, you two talk, I'll finish making tea for the Constables, the boys are raiding my kitchen, and the other two degenerates are tied up in the cupboard."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Watson told her making eye contact, showing that he was not just referring to that day. She smiled and wiped a smudge on his chin before she picked up her rolling pin and descended, after tutting about the mess she was going to have to clean up.

Lestrade sat in a chair resting his boots on the now stirring prisoner. "What did you mean we are not done for the day?"

Watson picked up the hat rack and leaned against the mantel. "We might have been that chap's target, but his handlers have a bigger objective in mind."

Lestrade leaned forward. "Who?"

Watson looked grave. "Mycroft Holmes."

* * *

**Story Notes:** I tried to be as accurate with the cockney dialect as possible, I know it is extremely hard to write well. If I erred it was on the side of readability, I have read after some people whose cockney accents were indecipherable which I feel defeats the purpose personally. I was dealing with some long time elements of Holmsian lore in this chapter, 221b Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, the Baker Street Irregulars, so if a cannon expert sees a mistake, please feel free to let me know. If you feel Watson is OOC however, we will politely disagree. :)

thanks!

**(4)** The corresponding picture in my profile is of this awwwww moment. Be sure to check it out!

Bart


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Notes: **Wow! Two in the can! I can scarcely believe it.

This chapter has an element that KCS requested, namely Mycroft and Doctor have that talk they've been needing to get around to. I have used a lot of the Yarders in this one, I'm not the Yard writer that Argonite (run...don't walk over to her **Fang** fic if you have not read it already!) is but I think I did okay. Just so she knows, I planned Doctor Watson's ability with a firearm before she posted her last chapter.

I could not resist adding my two coffee addicts once again, those two are a hoot to write!

There will be more of these, if the good Doctor would leave me alone I will update Albus Potter more often LOL! Oh well he's like a dear friend visiting, I will write as long as I can as there will come a day when he's not as clear in my head.

Lestrade is Lestrade, and he digs at scabs and sores and makes things worse, and is not always the best friend, but I guess that makes him more human, I hope you guys don't get too angry at the dear chap.

There is very little written about the immediate aftermath to Reichenbach Falls so I added my interpretation, I hope no cannon nuts are offended.

If you have not see the Russian Version of The Final Problem, Its called "The Deadly Fight" WATCH IT! The final battle is one of the most real and EPIC fight scenes I have ever seen in ANY movie or television, and Watson's reaction was amazingly acted! The vaguely over the top posturing from the Innkeeper I could do without however, I have not seen over acting like that since David Kelly CSI:Miami! (OMG did I just say that out loud grin)

I hate to say it, because of the hate mail headed to me...it was WAY better than Brett playing footsie with the old man he fought in the Granada version.

Also if you get the chance to see the Russian version of The Empty House, which is called "Hunt for the Tiger" do yourself a favor and WATCH IT!!! It is worth it if only for the Watson/Mrs. Hudson fainting scene which made me laugh my butt off!

Livanov even without English speaking is my ultimate Sherlock Holmes.

As for the creepy parts of this chapter, hey Arthur had his Hound of the Baskervilles right?

**WARNING: The quote from Watson might be a tad risque' sorry.**

I hope you enjoy this.

Bart

**BTW **These are Mister Doyles boys I just played with them for a while, Esmeralda is mine though!

* * *

**Doctor John Watson, Police Surgeon: Scotland Yard 2**

**Impostor**

**Chapter Five**

They all gathered in the sitting room of 221b. Bradstreet was leaning against the mantel, Hopkins had his pad out seated at Holmes old desk, Gregson and Lestrade sat in chairs pointed toward Watson who was resting on the couch.

He looked a little worse for the tribulation he had just gone through; Mrs. Hudson had insisted he lie down while he gave details of his ordeal with the false Holmes.

Lestrade was convinced that no one could make Doctor Watson take it easy against his will, but after an intense stare down with the little gray haired lady, the man had stretched out as he had been commanded, applying the pack she provided to his left cheek, which had started to swell. Lestrade was thinking about asking about her secret for subduing the bullpup so easily.

"Read back the salient points, Hopkins," Gregson requested solemnly.

Hopkins flipped back a few pages cleared his throat and began.

"A man suffering from a fractured identity, who was being brainwashed into believing he is actually Sherlock Holmes with amnesia, suddenly begins receiving communiqués allegedly from Mycroft Holmes. Before long, three other blokes showed up, claiming to be from the Diogenes Club to assist him in his endeavour to reclaim the Sherlock Holmes name. Soon he was traipsing all over London, solving crimes and doing his best Holmes impersonation. This morning, he received a further alleged letter from Mycroft informing him that it was time to take his name back, but it would necessitate eliminating all vestiges of his former life and starting fresh. He was to eliminate his Psychiatrist, which he chose to do by simulating an overdose, then see to Mrs. Hudson, and Doctor Watson here by means of a gas leak explosion. We have Mrs. Hudson's overheard conversation and a stick of dynamite attached to the gas meter to prove that. We also know that Lestrade was targeted as well by an assailant, who is also in custody."

Lestrade leaned forward. "Will the fake Holmes testify to Doctor Bedlow's involvement?"

Watson shook his head, his eyes flashed with anger. "There is not enough left of the former persona, he is for all intents and purposes Sherlock Holmes in his mind, he will remain so the rest of his days. Which will not be long, I wager, he is very instable at the moment."

"Poor devil," Bradstreet muttered.

Gregson straightened up in his seat. "Feel sorry for the bloke later, I want to know why Watson feels Mycroft is in danger, for all we know that fat manipulative bastard was behind all this."

Watson and Lestrade exchanged a considering look before Lestrade turned to Gregson. "Mycroft Holmes would never do something like this, he spent a lot of time seeing to Doctor Watson's health and well being, for reasons we don't yet know, he is not a man to waste resources or do something that he is going to undo later."

Watson nodded agreement. "This is all too sloppy for Mycroft, if he chose to act in this manner; there would be no trace of him anywhere on it." He pulled a card from his pocket. "The Fake Holmes was supposed to meet Mycroft later on tonight at The Diogenes Club, look at the invitation."

Gregson took the summons; he passed it to Hopkins and Bradstreet in turn. Lestrade had already seen it and he appeared grave.

Bradstreet looked up at the invitation through the gas light. "S' got tha Diagones watermark sure 'nuff. I've never seen one up close though."

"I have," Gregson remarked cryptically, "It's genuine Diagones stationary, I'd stake me life on it."

Hopkins shot up. "If Mycroft is not the author, and it is his stationary..."

"Then someone, exceptionally close to him, is operating in collusion with the ones behind this scheme," Watson finished. "I thought it might be a framing of Mycroft, at first, but the impostor was told to remove all trace of the letters Mycroft supposedly wrote, they lie burned to ash in the fireplace there."

Bradstreet's forehead wrinkled as he absorbed the implications. "So's this all comes back to da fake Holmes..."

"Which according to plan, would leave one man left who could dispute his identity, Mycroft Holmes, and the impostor was supposed to attend a meeting with that man," Gregson continued, "but the impostor thought he was Holmes, he wouldn't kill his own brother."

Watson nodded. "That means there is still an assassin at Diogenes, who is waiting to kill Mycroft Holmes as soon as he and his "brother" are in the same room, thus closing the circle."

"Leaving absolutely nothing of Holmes intact, not friend, family, or acquaintance or even his home," Lestrade interjected. "Even if Holmes was alive, he could never come back to England at that point, his name would be ruined."

"Deucedly clever," Hopkins confirmed.

Watson looked thoughtful. "If we attempt to send word to Diogenes, how can we be sure that the person delivering the note to Mycroft did not have his other hand on a weapon?"

Gregson stood. "There is only one thing to do."

Bradstreet's bushy beard was unable to conceal a broad smile. "We rush the doors."

Lestrade looked concerned. "You don't charge the doors at Diogenes, they have their own security, and they don't even acknowledge the Met."

Watson pulled himself painfully to a seated position. "Is there precedent in the law books we can use to protect you from political retribution if I am wrong?"

They all turned to Hopkins, who was the resident law expert. He looked thoughtful as he scratched his new patchy moustache. "We could say that we had reason to be concerned about a high government official's immediate welfare, and that we had to act before proper warrants could be issued, that would keep our careers at least, if Mycroft was proven to be in danger that would be even better."

Gregson nodded. "Let's get going. We have to get though the door first; we need a distraction so we can subdue the guards without a shot. Thing is, they are professionals, not much is going to dissuade them from their appointed task."

Lestrade got an evil smile on his face. "I know two blokes who can distract anyone living; they are probably starting their shift over Whitechapel way, hovering around a coffee pot at the station."

Bradstreet chuckled. "Now I don' like those Diogenes snobs either, but that is pure evil, Giles."

Watson stood painfully, hobbled over to his old cherry desk; he pulled a wood box out of a side drawer, and then extracted a Webley Bulldog revolver from its wrappings. "I think it's time for this old girl, if you don't mind me coming along," his words punctuated by a very professional display of breaking it and checking the cartridges, "I promise not to be a bother," he said slapping the break closed spinning the chambers and holstering his coat pocket in one smooth motion.

"By all means," Gregson managed to say.

The rest of the officers nodded eagerly, Lestrade included.

---

Lestrade and Watson watched from around the corner as the two constables, murmuring in quick exchanges between each other made their way up to the door of the characterless building.

"Hello there guv, ow is ya and yer associate?" called PC Tommy Parlier.

"I think they're busy Tommy, they look all serious like," replied his partner and fellow coffee addict PC Bobby Darling.

"Better them than me." Lestrade muttered to Watson, rewarded by a low snigger from the good doctor.

"Well we has to question tha man, Bobby, we cannot shirk duty, no matter who he is."

"Right you are, Tommy, sorry I expressed dissent, old boy."

"No worries, Bobby"

The two plain-clothes men, wearing overcoats with suspicious jacket bulges and who had quick furtive eyes seemed dazed by the sudden assault of verbiage. "Hold on now, what are you two going on about?"

"We is going on about a complaint filed against one Mister Mycroft Holmes, tell'em Bobby."

"This here lass we got in this report says, that Mister Holmes ran out on a tab at her restaurant."

"Ate his way through most of a buffet before he bolted, right Bobby?

"Right you are Tommy, she says she was out an entire roast duck before the man stopped eating."

"Now hold on," said one of the men, not noticing Gregson and Bradstreet creeping up from the sides, "Mister Holmes orders in all the time, he even lives here."

"So we can't get into see tha man?"

"That's bound to be illegal, harbouring a fugitive, Tommy."

Both guards seemed flabbergasted and irritated; suddenly Gregson and Bradstreet pounced, for all of their training, the two guards were completely unaware, it was over in seconds.

Lestrade and Watson followed by twelve of the Metropolitan Police Force's best, swept around the corner toward the door, it may have been the adrenaline but Watson was moving better than he had in Lestrade's presence these last few months.

"We'll secure the guards, you two go straight up to Holmes," Gregson ordered. Lestrade tried not to show his distaste when he agreed.

They hit the door and the officers poured in with guns drawn challenging anyone who milled about to drop weapons and get down on their knees, Lestrade and Watson ignored the pandemonium and made for the stairs.

They were halfway down the ornate hallway when Mycroft's assistant, posted in front of Mycroft's office, saw them coming, the man immediately made for the door, his hand stowing into his coat.

"Watson!" Lestrade bellowed.

"I see him," Watson replied calmly, he stopped and quickly adopted a one handed firing stance Lestrade had seen used by target shooters, his right arm extended, left arm draped across his lower back.

The Webley sounded like a cannon in the cavernous hall.

The assistant fell like a stone.

They rushed into the office, Watson holstered his revolver, bent down to check for a pulse, to Lestrade's relief there was a pistol in the dead man's hand. Watson shook his head solemnly.

"Was that entirely necessary?" Mycroft stated. He was wiping crumbs from a late dinner off his chin.

"We just saved your life, Mycroft," Lestrade spat, "the least you can do is be grateful.

"No, Lestrade, we did not save his life," Watson murmured. Lestrade looked down to where the man was still kneeling. The Doctor pointed under the body, which was now bleeding steadily on the floor. "He moved the carpet, you can see the seam of a trap door, very well hidden but it's there."

Lestrade saw where he was tracing, sure enough, nearly hidden by the tongue and grove planking, was a nearly invisible line.

"I was hoping to capture him alive," Mycroft explained, the bother tinting his voice.

Lestrade frowned. "You knew all along, you let us sprint all over London and you already knew what was transpiring."

Mycroft shrugged, he did not seem repentant in the slightest. "I suspected, I needed someone to trigger the events, you cannot watch the dominoes fall until someone tips the first one."

Watson stood; his eyes focused on the dead man.

Lestrade was infuriated on the Doctor's behalf, he knew Watson went against his oath on to save Mycroft and it would haunt him that it was not even necessary.

Mycroft took a sip of wine. "That was a capital shot by the way, Doctor Watson, my brother was not exaggerating about your ability with a firearm," he remarked in a gracious air.

Lestrade tried to salvage the situation. "Well, we have three men in custody, including the impostor; you'll be able to get information from them I'll wager."

"They will all be dead before the night is past," Mycroft stated studying the wine as if he were divining the future, "of that I am sure. All that I can salvage is that the instigator of this affair will most likely be floating in the Thames soon; from his identity, I can at least ascertain the area of high-society where I need to focus my efforts."

Watson walked to the desk. Placed his hands on the surface and leaned forward. Lestrade could not see the look he was giving Mycroft, but he was almost sure he saw a sudden bead of sweat roll down the big man's forehead.

"I am not a violent man, I am a doctor, and my oath to do no harm is my creed. This day you nearly cost two of my friends their lives, all because you chose to play your game rather than arm us to a possible threat. It was only by sheer chance, and some very clever lads I know, we prevailed."

Watson pointedly placed his gun on the desktop. "I have very little left in this world to entice me to stay in it, if I lose anyone else, and I do mean anyone, I may decide it is time to throw off this mortal coil. On that day, I promise to take you with me. I have killed someone that need not have died on your behalf this night, as I see it, you owe me a life, if you ever use me and my loved ones as pawns again, I will collect on that debt, on my honour."

He retrieved and holstered his weapon, then turned and left without another word.

Lestrade tried to think of something pithy to say, but he decided he could not add anything to that speech. Besides, it looked as if Mycroft was too deep in thought to notice.

* * *

Across town, in an equally opulent club, but one that had never accepted a name, were five men in a lavish study. An underling had just finished a report; now collapsed from nerves out in the hallway having just escaped with his life.

Moran was standing at the lavish marble fireplace mantel. He was staring at the trophy of a Siberian Tiger that had been one of his contributions. The ease at which he was standing was deceptive; the man wound as tight as his special air gun.

"That is all. Months of preparation on an operation, a once and a lifetime opportunity I was promised. A man so truly immersed in Sherlock Holmes that he could stand up to any test, or scrutiny. We will be rid of the spectre of Holmes forever. In the process we will destroy any vestiges of the man left in England."

He turned to the quiet assemblage, his yellow eyes sweeping them with disdain. None of them met his eyes, knowing his violent potential. "Who accepts responsibility? Or do I need to choose?"

One of them stood. "Give me until Midnight, that is all I ask, I will have my affairs in order by that time."

Moran nodded.

The man left without a backward glance.

Moran nodded to a dark figure in the corner. "You have work to do."

They all averted their eyes, knowing the first time they laid eyes on the being quietly making their way past, would be their last moments of life. They studied their shoes and the floor until the sound of expensive shoes and a clicking cane faded. One word echoed in their collective minds.

_Charon._

Moran turned back to the fireplace. "Doctor John Watson, you are rapidly reducing your usefulness to me."

* * *

It was two nights later.

Lestrade and the boys were all sitting around the dusty tavern table, Esmeralda was squeezing her accordion and belting away at _Strike the Bell,_

_Strike the bell, second mate  
Let us go below  
Look away to windward  
You can see it's going to blow  
Look at the glass  
You can see that it is fell  
We wish the you would hurry up  
And strike, strike the bell_

She sang in her pretty contralto voice. Lestrade wondered often if Esmeralda had been born higher class and had been given the proper training, what she could have done with that talent. Of course, he always got introspective when he was a bit drunk.

They were betting on Bradsteet and Hopkins as they traded shots of Caribbean Rum. Lestrade had three P on Bradstreet, but it was not much of a bet, considering no one was on Hopkins at the moment.

He had invited the Doctor down, but the man had begged off having decided to take Mrs. Hudson to the opera that very night. He almost lost the dear lady, and he was not going to take her for granted again.

Watson had not been to the opera since Mary died, and it was time to begin the process of moving on. Lestrade was happy for him. There would be other nights for the Doctor to join the festivities.

Suddenly there was a commotion by the door. He glanced up to see Watson, shaking the hand of a weaving constable who was loudly thanking the man for seeing to his wife's lumbago. Watson just asked him some follow up questions and they parted

The Doctor waved at several Yarders as he made his way over to the little group. He was dressed far to fine for The Rusty Anchor, which Lestrade realized was not going unnoticed by the fairer inhabitants of the tavern.

"Doc," Bradstreet called, his voice slightly slurred, "come down to see me drink Stan'ly under tha table?"

Watson studied the two men, then Hopkins plate. "Sure...who's got the book?"

Gregson waved it. The Doctor made a bet for Hopkins, suddenly there was a flurry as several betters changed their minds, included in that number was Lestrade.

"I learned never to bet against you, Doctor," Lestrade commented leaning in close.

"Hopkins is thinner so he most likely has a higher metabolic rate, he also has eaten a steak and potato, which is a fatty food and a starchy food. Bradstreet, while larger has a slower metabolism, and has eaten the fish, no help in absorption there..." Watson murmured were only Lestrade could hear.

To prove his point, Bradstreet passed out and fell onto the tabletop like a toppling tree, sending shot glasses rolling, Hopkins raised his hands in victory, and jumped to his feet, promptly passing out hitting the floor with a thud.

The bet, since both where passed out, worked out in favour of Hopkins who was going home with a pocket full of money after a good-natured debate. Hopefully, that would buy a stay of execution from his sweet wife. They both were in the corner snoring, leaned on each other, propped up as a joke.

"I wish Rollins, our crime scene photographer was down here, this would be perfect black mail material," Gregson remarked to Inspector Altheny Jones, then he hastily added, "If black mail was legal of course."

They all had a laugh at that.

Esmeralda walked up, and saucily sat in Doctor Watson's lap. "What can I get you, handsome, besides a night with me that would leave you a shell of a man before morning light?"

Watson winked at her. "Your best Australian lager, and your forgiveness that I have to turn down such a earth-shattering offer, dear lady. I have far too many people relying on me for medical care to be left a shell of a man."

She gave him one good suggestive wiggle then hopped up to get his order. "Why can't the rest of you Yarder blokes be a gentleman like him, eh?" She goaded, playfully patting his cheek.

After she left, Watson leaned in his face showing some embarrassment. "I forgot how long it has been since I felt a feminine touch, if she had stayed much longer, a change in her opinion of my gentility would have been inevitable," he remarked with a shy smile. **(5)**

Lestrade choked on his beer.

Watson waited until he composed himself. "How is our Impostor?"

Lestrade suddenly felt like another beer, so he called for it. "Found him this morning, suicide, hung himself in his cell."

Watson slumped. "I know he was a killer, but I still felt for the chap. No one should ever go through what he endured. Do we even know who he was?"

Lestrade shrugged. "No records at the sanatorium, no missing persons matching his description anywhere. We will never know unless someone comes forward, he'll be buried by the government in Potter's Field, along with the other three."

Watson started. "Other three?" he inquired.

Lestrade nodded. "All three of his accomplices had capsules in their boots; St. Cloud determined it was cyanide."

Watson thought it for a moment. "What about a rich benefactor?"

Lestrade sipped his new beer. "None yet, but it's a matter of time."

Watson nodded as he sipped his own drink.

Lestrade had a question; he tried to formulate it in his head. He did not want to appear blunt, but he had to know. "That impostor, while portraying Doctor Bedlow, asked you why you refuse to believe any rumours about Sherlock being alive, even though there is no body; you lost control for the first time since I've known you. I would like to know why, if that is going to be an Achilles heel every time someone mentions it, it may affect our work."

Watson sighed, studying the glass. "I dived on the pool at the base of Reichenbach Falls for nearly an hour looking for his body, Lestrade. They had to drag me away suffering from hypothermia from the snowmelt, I nearly drowned. I lost my voice for two days from calling his name."

Lestrade felt concerned, even though it happened over two years past. "Did you see his body?"

Watson shook his head, his haunted eyes found Lestrade's with unerring accuracy. "I did see Moriarty's, he was most certainly dead, and it was not an easy passing I am happy to confirm."

Lestrade felt bad that he had brought the subject to light; he cursed himself for his invasive curiosity. "Yet another nightmare for you I suppose."

"One of many," Watson remarked quietly.

* * *

A lone gentleman looked out upon the Paris skyline twinkling from the deck of his ship crossing the Channel. In the last two days he had changed his appearance, his clothing, even used some acting skills to alter his accent and mannerisms. He moved through the underground like a wraith using connections that he had established years ago for this purpose. He was as safe as he could be, and yet he still felt apprehensive.

_Charon has never missed. No matter how far they have roamed, he found them. _He pondered. Once again reached into his coat to feel the comforting weight of the pistol concealed there. _If he wants to come for me, he will not find easy prey._

There was a silent blanket of fog gently crossing the deck of the vessel. It enveloped him.

-

The steward found his dead body two hours later, his gun untouched, coin on his tongue.

* * *

**Story Notes:** Yes you will be seeing Charon again, or well not see Charon again. Nuff said :)

I know there are multiple ideas about what Watson actually carried around revolver wise, I used the most common.

Thanks for reading!

**(5)** Check my profile to see one embarrassed Doctor!


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